


Exit Wounds

by AgentCoop



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alcohol, Cemetery, Death, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Pining Okumura Eiji, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, graphic description of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:29:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22834813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentCoop/pseuds/AgentCoop
Summary: In the space of a 17 hour flight, Eiji's entire world collapses.
Relationships: Ash Lynx & Okumura Eiji, Ash Lynx/Okumura Eiji, Ibe Shunichi & Okumura Eiji
Comments: 24
Kudos: 162





	Exit Wounds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Myka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myka/gifts).



> Happiest of birthdays to a wonderful friend.  
> Love you <3 <3 <3
> 
> ***please heed all tags***

The tarmac of JFK looks exactly as it did when they’d arrived two years ago. Grey, dreary, and full of airplanes parked at gates. It doesn’t look anything like New York City does. It’s just boring. Like every other airport in the world.

“Okay?” Ibe asks, leaning over and looking out the tiny window on Eiji’s side.

“Yes!” Eiji answers, cheerily automatic. “I am okay.”

Ibe nods, then starts digging in the side of his seat, finally grabbing the buckle and clicking the two metal halves together. He pulls his phone out of the small backpack tucked between his legs, checks it again to make sure it’s off, then stashes it back in the pocket before leaning back in the oversized seat. “Are you sure?” he asks again.

Eiji sighs, then smiles back. “I am sure.”

Ibe’s hands are clenched tight on the armrests of the airplane seat, his jaw is full of tension, and he squeezes his eyes closed for a long moment before looking back to Eiji. “Good.”

Ibe is scared of flying. This thought surfaces only for a moment, just enough jog Eiji’s memory of the last flight they made, where Ibe threw up two times in the tiny paper sick bags, until finally swallowing down another couple of anti-nausea pills that he’d brought with him, just in case. He was quiet almost the entire flight, mouth pressed in a tight line and face white with anxiety, while beside him, Eiji was virtually bouncing in excitement.

America.

Something new. Something unspoiled.

Something dangerous.

And it _was_ dangerous, just not in the way Eiji would have ever expected.

His stomach tightens at that though, a wave of heat cresting within him. He swallows hard, clenching his teeth and trying to force himself away from...that. From Ash. Eiji reaches down for his own buckle with his good arm, and that’s when he gasps, pain flaring from his side.

“Eiji!” Ibe hisses, reaching over Eiji’s seat and grabbing the other bag that sits between them. “What time is it? Did you take your pain medication?”

“I'm fine,” Eiji grinds out, eyes clenched shut for a second against the pain. Then he slowly relaxes again, trying not to make any more sudden movements. “What time is it?”

Truth be told, he can’t remember what time he took them, how long they are supposed to last, how many he is supposed to take.

It’s not information that’s difficult. It’s just that he’s having more and more trouble focusing on anything that isn’t Ash.

Ash.

He didn’t come. _He didn’t come._

“Eiji?” Ibe prompts again, finally fishing out the three bottles. He pulls down the tray on the seat in front of them, sets them each down, and is about to open the first, when one of the flight attendants comes by.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” she says, in a saccharine voice, smile so wide it touches her ears. “We are about to take off so we have to ask that you stow your bags, and–”

“Sorry,” Ibe says, motioning to Eiji. “I am so sorry, he forgot to take his medication, he’s in pain right now, he–”

It goes on and on, and Eiji just lets the buzz of his words become nothing but static around him. Eventually, Ibe must do a decent job of convincing the flight attendant (not that it is a particularly hard job, what with Eiji slumped and sallow looking, and bandages peeking out from his shirt,) because she leaves for just a second, and quickly returns with a small cup of water.

“Here you go, sweetheart,” she says, talking to Eiji like he’s ten.

He doesn’t even have energy to reply. He just nods, drinks some water, takes the five pills that Ibe hands him, and lets his forehead rest against the window of the airliner, looking forward to the haze of drugs that will carry him back over the Atlantic.

It takes them a long time to disembark in Japan. Eiji had been wheeled into the flight, so they have to wait for all of the passengers to leave before the attendants can unfold the wheelchair again for him to sit in.

He feels ridiculous about it. He got shot in the stomach, not the legs, he can walk just fine.

But when the stitches start to pull hard, even through the fog of codeine, he finds himself grateful, however irritable that gratefulness may be, for the ride.

Ibe’s talking up a storm now that they are safely on the ground again. He’s switched back to Japanese, and Eiji finds himself answering only in Japanese, and in the space of a 17 hour flight, they’ve shucked off their English like winter coats that are suddenly far hot and uncomfortable to wear.

Eiji’s family is waiting at the turnstiles. His father is also in a wheelchair, looking just as sickly as Eiji feels, and his stomach tightens that he hasn’t been here in two years–that he’s done nothing to help as his father wastes away from the cancer that eats at his bones.

His mother is there too, and his little sister, who’s suddenly tall, and so beautiful it hurts. They smile, and wave, and Ibe is pushing faster, and before Eiji can think to yell ‘stop’ they hit upon each other–the crest of an ocean wave, rubbing just enough at the earth to cause it to cave in.

<Eiji, Eiji, Eiji,> they all say, tears in eyes, smiles on faces, concern etched into lines that didn’t exist two years prior.

Eiji smiles, and hugs, and laughs, and tries not to think–don’t think–and even he loses himself enough in the moment to not realize that Ibe is no longer standing beside him.

<Should we get going?> he asks, turning his head.

Ibe has moved across the floor of the small receiving lobby of the airport–shoulder pressed against the tile wall, cellphone pressed against his ear, the blue restroom sign hanging just to his left. He looks over, and Eiji gives a small wave, moving as much as his body will allow without pain, and tries to beckon him back over.

Holding up a finger, Ibe turns back and continues whatever conversation he’s having. 

Ibe is coming home with the Okumura family. His own family lives back in Tokyo, and he’ll return there in a few days, after Eiji’s family gets done simultaneously thanking him for protecting Eiji, and screaming at him for letting Eiji get hurt, and berating him for ever having this ridiculous idea in the first place. 

It’s only a few more minutes–Eiji’s sister jabbering on and on, asking him if he met an American girl, did he fall in love, did the charm work–and then Ibe is back, phone still in his hand, face frozen in some horrible rictus grin.

<What’s wrong?> Eiji asks. <Ibe?>

Ibe stands silent a moment longer, while the Okumura’s all clammer around him, asking him if he needs a glass of water, if he needs to sit down. Eventually, he shakes his head, blinks a few times like he’s just woken up from a deep sleep, then grabs ahold of Eiji’s wheelchair. <Can I talk to you?> he asks. <Alone?>

There isn’t a single moment where Eiji feels panic, nervousness, or anxiety. He’s just tired. Everything hurts. Everyone is too loud. And he just wants to sleep for a long, long time. So he nods, and allows Ibe to push him away from his family.

They don’t make it far–just out of hearing of the Okumuras–stopping right under the line of screens that show incoming flights, delays, times, reschedules.

<Oh fuck,> Ibe says, hand pressing against his mouth. He moves around to Eiji’s front, looking down at him, looking to the side, kneeling down and looking up, looking anywhere but actually in Eiji’s eyes.

<Ibe?>

<Oh fuck,> he says again. <Max called.>

<What’s wrong with Max?> Eiji asks. He’s still not worried. Max is kind of a giant bumbling idiot. He’s helpful, of course, but for someone who prides himself on his ‘investigative journalism’ Eiji’s always thought he tried to sound a lot smarter than he actually was.

But Ash liked him so…

He was decent.

<He tried...oh, Eiji. He left me seven voicemails during the flight. I just got them. I just got him on the phone. Oh fuck–>

<Ibe, come on,> Eiji pleads, stomach starting to turn sour. <What’s going on?>

For all the nervous energy, the way he won’t hold Eiji’s eyes, the way he swallows again and again like something is stuck in his throat, the words come out clear enough.

<Ash,> he says, voice swollen with pity. <Ash is dead.>

It’s a nightmare in a long list of nightmares, in a life that was once so filled with promise.

They fly to Massachusetts the next day.

Max pays for the tickets. Ibe offers too, but Max is adamant that he’s got it taken care of, that Ash would have wanted both of them there, and that it’s truly no strain on him.

That can’t possibly be true, but Ibe and Eiji are both too exhausted to do anything about it.

They do go back to the Okumura’s that night, where Eiji’s mom serves them soba in broth so hot it fogs up Ibe’s glasses. Eiji pushes the noodles around, but he’s starting to feel nauseous from the codeine and the pain, and he doesn’t actually eat much.

<Why?> She asks. <Why must you go back?>

_Why, why, why._

There is no other answer for her than because. There is no way that Eiji can think to explain it to her. _It hurts,_ he wants to say. _It hurts._

Ibe is much better at consoling her. <It’s a very close friend,> he explains, pausing to slurp up another noodle. <I am so sorry to ask this of you, but Eiji and I really need to be there. It will only be a few days, but we really need to go.>

She’s not satisfied, even Eiji can tell. But this explanation gives way to a new set of questions.

<Are you alright?> They ask, over and over and over again.

He doesn’t know.

Nothing is real yet–it shimmers in front of him, some sort of gruesome promise that’s almost within reach, but still coming into focus.

<Are you alright?>

<Yes,> he answers. Always yes.

They sleep, or try too. Eiji presses his mouth tight, trying to breathe against the pain in his stomach that’s coming in waves now. He can hear his father in another room, wheelchair rolling back and forth, back and forth. Even in sickness, he still remembers how to pace.

Ibe doesn’t sleep either. Eiji knows, because he doesn’t snore.

Then they go back to the airport in the morning. Board the same plane they landed on. Two of the flight attendants are the same. They smile, welcome the passengers in Japanese, then without any further preamble, Eiji and Ibe are back in the air.

Massachusetts looks different from New York City, but it’s still the United States. It’s still across an ocean. This time, instead of Eiji’s heart swelling with wonder, he suddenly presses a hand to his mouth, reaches for one of the small paper bags stuffed in the back of the seat in front of him, and proceeds to be furiously sick.

Ibe pats his back, hands him a napkin when he’s done. They are already taxying at this point, so there are no easy garbage bags that the attendants walk down the aisle with to toss the mess into. Instead, Ibe holds onto the small bag, carrying Eiji’s insides the entire time it takes for the plane to reach the gate.

“Codeine is a bitch,” Ibe says, in English again. As soon as the tips of buildings became visible, he remembered how to speak in American.

Eiji nods in agreement. It’s not the codeine, he thinks, but that’s the sort of statement that tastes like death, so he doesn’t say it.

They wait again for the passengers to leave, for the attendant to wheel in the chair, for Ibe to push Eiji through the hollow bridge that connects to the plane and back into the airport. Nantucket Memorial Airport is small, but it is still larger than Izumo, and so it takes an agonizing amount of time before they are back in arrivals.

They wait at the turnstile for their bags, and Eiji watches the luggage go round and round, while Ibe calls Max. There’s a young girl across from him, holding her father’s hand, and pulling at him, bouncing, and red cheeked and excited. He’s on a cellphone too, yelling into it, loud enough that Eiji can hear.

Something about business. About not being fast enough. About there being no time.

 _That’s right_ , Eiji finds himself on the verge of saying. There is no time. There will never be more time. It is over, it is over, it is over.

“Eiji!”

He looks up, and Max is there, and suddenly Eiji realizes that the little girl and the man are gone, that the baggage carousel has stopped spinning, that nothing is there at all.

“I am sorry,” he apologizes, cheeks flushing, heart beating rapidly in his chest. He has no idea how much time has passed, and it’s uncomfortable, knowing that it’s so easy to be lost in the flow of it. “Hi, Max.”

Max looks terrible, like he hasn’t slept in a week, like he’s been crying, like he hasn’t eaten, like Ash is dead.

“I’ve got you guys a suite at the Oyster Cove Bed and Breakfast. It’s only a couple of blocks away from the cemetery where...well. Fuck. I just...this is a lot. I’m sorry. This is a lot.”

And then Max is crying again, and Ibe’s trying to comfort him, and Eiji is just sitting there in his wheelchair, wondering if it’s time for more codeine.

Eventually, they leave the airport, they make it to the bed and breakfast, and it’s nice. Real nice. Max is assuring Ibe that it’s covered, that he doesn’t need to worry about the money, and all Eiji can think is that the kindly older gentleman who greets them at a desk as soon as they are inside looks exactly like the doorman who used to greet them at the condo building that Ash and Eiji had lived in for a few months.

Upstairs, they unpack and Max gives them a rundown, pulling up a briefcase, and taking out file folder after file folder, all bulging with paperwork.

It’s easy.

Ash left explicit instructions, a will, requests, everything laid out. Even in death, he exceeds expectations.

There’s a meeting with the lawyer again tomorrow morning. Max had already been with him all day yesterday, but this will help finalize all of the little details.

“Ash left me a lot of money,” he explains. “I mean, I don’t have it yet. I won’t for a long time. But it’s enough to live on for a very long time.”

Which explains the plane tickets and the hotel.

“He also left you a lot,” Max says, turning to Eiji. “I mean. He left you most of it.”

This means nothing to Eiji. Ash was a genius who siphoned off money from the mob. Eiji always figured he’d be set for life if he ever wanted to make a break for it, and as Max lays out the paperwork in front of him, fingers brushing over the numbers, he realizes Ash had even more than Eiji could have ever imagined.

And now it’s his.

After the meeting, there is nothing. There’s no viewing. Ash didn’t want that. There’s no congregation of friends. Ash didn’t want that either. All there is, is the amount of time it takes to ready a body for burial. (Approximately 3 days, though with the amount of money Max was willing to spend, he managed to get it closer to 2.)

It’s Friday right now, and by Sunday morning they will be standing over a plot of dirt, watching the coffin lower down into the earth..

And that’s it.

Max starts pushing all the papers back in, closing everything up. “I’m so sorry,” he says again to Eiji, his voice breaking.

“How did he die?” Eiji asks.

Time stagnates, and for just a second Eiji worries that he’s doing it again, that it’s just like back at the airport, that he’ll blink and Max will be gone, and Ibe will be gone, and Eiji will be all alone.

It doesn’t happen though. It’s just that Max has frozen solid, and Ibe doesn’t know what to say.

“Of course...I...I’m sorry, I thought–”

“I’m sorry, Max,” Ibe interrupts, running a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t…”

There’s a moment where Eiji thinks how terribly unfair Ibe is being, putting even more weight on Max’s shoulders. And then Max tells him, and the entire world falls apart.

“He was stabbed. By one of the Chinatown gang. Lao. It happened in front of the library. And he…” Max flinches then, like there’s no possible way he can continue.

But he does.

“He went back into the library. He died at a desk.”

“Where was he stabbed?” Eiji whispers. _He must have been so scared._

“We are still waiting on a full coroner's report,” Max tells him. “But...fuck. It...they said it probably wasn’t a vital wound. He chose...he...uh…”

“He chose to die.”

Max nods, relief evident in his face that Eiji has spoken it and not him. “He chose it. He had a letter in his hands too, and, I’m so sorry Eiji–”

He doesn't have to continue, because Eiji knows exactly what he’s going to say. “My letter,” he says, just as Max says, “the coroner still has it as evidence, but if you’d like it back, we can get it to you.”

 _No_ , Eiji wants to say.

 _Fuck you_ , Eiji wants to say.

 _I hate him_ , Eiji wants to say.

“Okay.”

It’s February 13th the day they lay Ash to rest, and the only reason Eiji makes note of it at all is because it’s a Friday and Ibe keeps muttering something about it being unlucky.

Of course it’s unlucky.

It doesn’t have to be a Friday, it doesn’t have to be a 13, this day will forever be clouded by the act of burying a boy far too young.

They meet at the front of the cemetery gate, next a grey building that radiates cold. Max, Ibe, Nadia, Alex. Bones and Kong are there too, shuffling awkwardly between each other. They’d smiled and yelled as soon as Eiji arrived, and then too quickly quieted, even though he’d tried his hardest to smile back.

Sing isn’t there.

Eiji supposes this shouldn’t come as any surprise, but it still hurts–nothing compared to the foul black hurt that’s welling deep in his stomach–but still present. More subtle. More sad.

In one hand, Max grasps the small black urn that he’d been gifted that morning from the Coroner. It looks...unexceptional. It’s shiny, silver filigree inlaid around the lid and base, but it could just as easily be a fancy vase, or regular container. It’s pretty, and fancy, and it catches the gleam of the sun as it finally peeks from behind a cloud.

It doesn’t hold much. Just a few locks of hair, burned. Eiji’s not sure who asked for it, if it was in Ash’s wishes, if it was Max’s request. He’s not sure who it’s even meant for.

All he knows is that it contains a part of Eiji’s best friend.

It contains a part of Eiji’s heart.

They walk quietly to the hole in the ground that Ash will be lowered into. Jim Callenreese is there. So are a few other people that Eiji doesn’t know or even recognize from Ash’s stories.

There’s a priest who speaks in a sallow, limpid tone, like he’s bored, like he’s done this a thousand times. Then he leaves, allowing the mourners time alone.

There are no prayers. Jim says nothing, just runs a finger atop the shining black of the coffin that Max had picked two days ago.

Max quotes something that reeks of the Hemingway Ash liked to devour, but Eiji tries to tune out, missing most of the passage. Max says a few more words, then stops short, eyes closing tight, gloved hand tightening into a fist.

Eiji recognizes this grief, but Max just pulls in a deep breath, swallows, and then centers himself again. “Eiji?” he says, voice deep, and gruff with hurt. “Did you want to say anything?”

He doesn’t. He’d told Max this, back in the comfort of their hotel room. He’d told Ibe the same thing. He has nothing to say, he has no English to convey something that feels so wrong. He shakes his head, but it’s not enough. Everyone has already turned to look at him.

“I…” he begins, and then the hideous, poisonous black inside bursts free, pushing against his throat.

He starts crying.

Someone is patting him on the back, Ibe tells him it’s alright in Japanese, Max is saying, “it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, on repeat, and Eiji just wants to scream at him.

It’s not okay,

It’s never going to be okay again.

“I’m sorry,” Eiji finally chokes out, scrubbing at his face with his hand. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry Ash, why didn’t you...I don’t understand. I don’t understand why you didn’t trust me. Why you didn’t believe me. Why...why...why….”

He has no idea how many times he says it, only that Ibe is crouched next to him now, gripping his knee hard, thumb pressing circles into it.

There’s nowhere to go, he can’t even turn and hide his face without pulling at his stitches, so he just sits there, crying, sniffling, trying to smile, always trying to smile.

While everyone else looks down at him, pity dark in their eyes.

Eventually it’s time. Max backs away. Nods at the man standing near the grave. Then they watch as the coffin is carefully lowered, further, further.

Down.

Down.

Down.

In the spring, there will be flowers here.

Right now, there’s the gnarled branches of a tree without leaves reaching up towards the sky, and there is frozen grass that almost remembers being green.

Eiji’s suddenly nauseous again, and once they walk back out to the cemetery gate, it takes every ounce of willpower he has not to vomit all over the sidewalk.

He’s pretty sure that Bones and Kong both try to say goodbye to him. Alex waves in his direction. Ibe takes hold of Eiji’s wheelchair and turns him then, so he no longer has to watch the way Max is standing so still, hands starting to shake.

Then they wait for the Uber driver to arrive and take them back to the bed and breakfast–only two blocks away. Just like Max said.

Eiji works on smiling. He works on talking like there isn’t the weight of a dead boy’s body constricting his lungs.

He calls his mom, he talks to his dad, he talks to his sister. He eats the takeout that Ibe brings back, and he doesn’t throw it up. He steadies his breathing every night, counting numbers, meditating trying to convince Ibe he’s fallen asleep.

They’ll be here for another week at least. Max has meetings with the lawyer set up and they are trying to get through the paperwork as fast as they can, but it takes a long time to transfer ownership of millions of dollars.

Yeah.

Millions.

Eiji just blinks the first time they tell him, certain he’s misunderstood. He’d seen the numbers on the page the first day they’d arrived, but they were just numbers then. Didn’t mean anything. His English has made leaps and bounds since coming here two years ago, but he still misses jokes and vernacular frequently.

He understands once he sees the number again, in black ink, right above the tiny line that he’s supposed to sign.

$1,245,000

There’s some left for Ash’s father, and another large amount left for Max along with the instructions that he is to be the one handling the estate–not Jim Callenreese. Max has also signed papers agreeing to visit Griffin’s grave at Ash’s bequest.

No one says it outloud, but Eiji knows that Max will visit Ash’s just as frequently.

The majority of the money goes to Eiji, though. The foreigner. The newcomer.

It makes Eiji want to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Ash loved him just enough to leave him a million dollars, but not enough to stay.

He’s certain that once he signs that paper on the day after they bury Ash, they can be done. They can leave. They can go back to Japan.

It doesn’t happen.

They have to go back to New York to settle Ash’s accounts, to sell the condo, to pick up the pieces of a life that had barely started to live.

Max could have done this easily on his own, but even Eiji, steeped in his own grief, can tell that he is barely hanging on by a thread. Ibe offers to help, and it only seems right that Eiji should visit New York once more before going home for good.

They leave Cape Cod on a drizzling Thursday morning, the roads coated in slush that is almost frozen.

And they drive to New York City.

He wakes from the nightmare screaming, Ash’s name on his lips.

Clutching the blankets to his chest, Eiji forces himself to breathe and open his eyes. When he finally settles enough that his heart isn’t in his throat, he looks over at the clock. It’s 3:14 in the afternoon.

He’s still not sleeping at night, but he’s able to get spurts here and there. As long as it’s daylight, he can manage.

Max has put all three of them up at a beautiful 5-star hotel. They all have their own rooms, living in luxury that’s paid for by a dead boy. Eiji’s thankful to be alone though–now he doesn’t need to worry that he’s additional stress on Ibe.

The hotel is two blocks from the library that Ash killed himself in, and though Eiji can’t see the building from his window, he can feel it, ominous and deadly. Mocking him.

Right now, Ibe is probably off helping Max take care of some other detail. It’s easiest if Eiji doesn’t go along. He’s still not able to walk on his own, and he doesn’t want to slow them down. He’s also a ticking time bomb on the emotional front. He keeps bursting into tears at random moments, and then they have to stop and console him, and really, it’s just a fucked up mess that he wants no part of.

Being alone is easier.

Eiji turns over. Watches the clock.

3:14.

3:14.

3:14.

3:14.

It seems like an eternity of his heart beating against the cage of his chest before it turns over again, clicking to 3:15.

He sits up, carefully swinging his legs over the side of the bed and gritting his teeth. Then he slowly stands and struggles into the bathroom, flinching at the pain in his side. The bathroom lights are horribly bright when he flips them on, but he stubbornly grips the sink counters, forcing his face forward, almost touching the mirror.

“Ash,” he says, mouth open for a second before his teeth close on the _shhh_ of it.

No one answers, and the silence is cavernous around him. Eiji raises a hand, and watches in the mirror as he opens and closes his fist. Then he reaches down, pushes on the bandaging around his abdomen, and lets out a small cry of pain.

It brings tears to his eyes still, whenever he moves too fast, whenever he brushes against the bandaging like this.

 _“You were shot,”_ the doctor said, the moment Eiji’s eyes finally fluttered open after anesthesia.

To be shot.

Ash knows this pain. Ash knows the pain of so much more.

 _Knew_ , his brain supplies, and suddenly his lip is quivering again in the mirror, and he has to throw his hand up, pressing his palm against his lips to suppress the sob that almost leaks out.

Eiji allows himself a moment of shuddering, gasping breaths, then he breathes in hard, squeezes his eyes closed, and forces himself to look back in the mirror.

His eyes are red, and bloodshot. He’s got dark circles under his eyes that look like bruises. He looks exhausted. He looks like he’s 14.

Brushing his hair to the side, he tries to stand as straight as possible, he tries to smile, he tries to see something in himself that’s worth saving.

Ash gave him that once.

But Ash is gone. Ash didn’t love him enough to stick around.

Maybe he didn’t love him at all.

It’s dramatic, but the thought is insidious, wrapping taloned claws around every nerve in Eiji’s body, and he’s 15 again, trying so hard to succeed, trying so hard to please everyone. And he does it. He’s 16, and wakes up at night in a cold sweat that he’ll fail, and nothing matters but flying. He’s 17 and he falls.

He’s 18 and he gives up.

Ibe saved him then, and it was worth it. It was really, really worth it. Even now, even with the death of the boy he loved thick in his throat, he knows it was worth it.

But he’s 21, and he…

Closing his eyes tight, Eiji tries to center himself, tries to breathe the way he’s been breathing at night, tries not to let everything shatter apart.

Then he picks up his phone, calls the CVS that’s on the corner of Broadway and 40th, just a block from the library. It takes him just a minute to click through the prompts, and then he’s on the line with one of the pharmacy staff.

“I just forgot them in Japan,” he says. “I’m such an idiot. I’m so sorry, you can call the doctor I was seen by in the hospital. I just need enough to get me through the two weeks I’m here, and then I’ll be back home. I’m so sorry!”

The girl listens to him, and he can hear the clicking on the keyboard through the phone.

“I apologize,” she says in sterile, clinical talk. “These are pretty heavy duty painkillers that you are on. I’m only authorized to refill 3 days for you, but hopefully in that time, you can get in touch with your doctor again. If he can call in a new prescription, we’d be happy to fill it.”

“Yes,” Eiji hears himself say. “Yes, that will be just fine.”

When he dumps them all out on the bathroom counter, there are 78 pills in all. A three day supply of codeine and extra strength Motrin nets him 36, and then he’s got another 42 stockpiled.

It looks like so much. But realistically, he figures too much Motrin is just going to send him into organ failure, rather than outright kill him, and so he’s mostly dependent on the codeine to get anywhere.

He’s not usually much of a drinker, but the 5-star hotel has a 5-star bar, and a 5-star room service menu.

Eiji calls down. Orders a fifth of Jack Daniels because that’s the one name he knows in English. And in twenty minutes, an older man brings it up with a smile.

Eiji smiles back. Tips him with a $50.

It’s almost midnight. One one side of his room, he can imagine the television playing softly. Ibe likes to sleep with white noise of some sort, and he’s grown accustomed to the t.v. in the recent days.

On the other side, lays Max. Also sleeping. He’s exhausted, and Eiji just heard him hours ago telling Ibe how much he needed to sleep.

And in the middle, lies Eiji.

Ibe will knock on his door around 8 a.m. They have a conference call with the lawyer again at 9:30, so they’ll grab a quick breakfast at the little bakery just down the street. They’ll chat. Talk about California, talk about Japan, talk about the war, talk about anything but Ash. Then they’ll head back to the hotel for the call.

And Eiji won’t be there.

He swallows seven or eight pills, then turns on the television and flips through the channels. There’s news, news, news. There’s two guys arguing the the baseboards in the house they are remodeling. There’s a black and white documentary about Hiroshima. There’s a relaxing voice, talking about the birth of a baby elephant.

He stays on that.

The Jack Daniels tastes absolutely awful and as Eiji throws back his fourth or fifth or sixth shot, because who the fuck is counting, he wonders why Americans have such shitty taste. On the television, the music has turned somber, an elephant stands on the screen, mud covered, trunk swaying, and the narrator speaks in a voice too gentle for death.

_“Dawn reveals a tragedy. A lone elephant stands over the remains of her dead calf. Trapped in the water hole overnight, it was attacked, and died. Elephants have strong bonds with their offspring, even after death. This young cow could have spent the next nine years with her calf. Seldom straying more than a few meters away. Instead, the same instinct to protect, now keeps her close to the remains. Unwilling to surrender.”_

Eiji takes another gulp of whiskey. “I am an elephant,” he says, and chokes on the burn of liquor. Wiping a hand across his mouth, and giggling, he says it again, louder. “I’m an elephant. I am an elephant, Ash!” Drinking again, he swallows and swallows. He’s having trouble focusing, and he’s stomach starts to feel like he’s about to be sick, so he regretfully puts the bottle back down. “Not ready yet,” he slurs, blinking heavily.

There’s a heavy knock on the door.

“Fuck,” Eiji swears. He’s no longer sure if he’s speaking in English or Japanese, all he knows is that he’s being way too loud and can’t control it. This makes him laugh too, and he’s sitting up on the bed now, head lolling against the headboard, and he can’t stop giggling.

The knock comes again, more frantic. “Eiji?” Ibe calls. “Eiji? Are you okay?”

This is absolutely not in the plan, but he’s already this close. Eiji’s not about to let this screw everything up. He looks down at the bedside table–at the rest pills that he’s dumped into one of the shiny black mugs that the hotel provided.

 _Bryant Park Hotel_ , it reads, emblazoned in gold.

It can hold 8 oz of coffee.

It can hold enough painkillers to kill a man.

Blinking, Eiji throws his legs over the side of the bed and tries to stand up, but a wave of dizziness overtakes him and he crashes into the table, sending the mug flying. He watches as pills scatter everywhere, and can hear the sound of Jack Daniels, drip, drip, drip, as it seeps into the carpet.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, but it comes out like a yell.

“Eiji!”

Ibe’s not giving up, and this should bother Eiji more than it does. He’d planned this so well. A quiet death. A lonely death. Not getting in anyone’s way, not causing a mess to clean up. They’d just wake up tomorrow morning, knock at his door, and eventually find him cold and lifeless on the bed.

Instead, Ibe is frantically pounding at the door, and Eiji can hear him calling for Max. All it does is make Eiji laugh harder.

Isn’t it so like him to fail at even this?

“Coming!” He yells back at the door, but his voice is all wrong. It’s too high pitched, it’s too happy, it’s too excited. It’s wrong, and he can hear Ibe start yelling louder. Eiji just sinks down to the ground and little white pills stick to the palms of his hands.

They’ve spilled everywhere, but the carpet is a dark grey, and so they are easy enough to see. He starts scooping them up until he’s got a handful–Norcos and Motrin–an easy exit if he can just get enough of them down.

“I hate you,” he cries, shoving pills into his mouth as fast as he can. Up on the table, there is still another mug that’s got a pour of whiskey in it. He grabs for it, swallows a handful of pills and washes them down. Does it again. “I hate you, Ash. I hate you.”

He’s crying now. At some point, the laughter turned to sobs, and it feels like they are going to tear a hole straight through his chest. There are more pills underneath the bed, but he falls onto his stomach, tries to reach, and somehow it just doesn’t seem all that pressing.

The noise at the door has stopped, and Eiji just lets himself cry, and cry, and cry. His face is pressed into the hotel carpeting, the fibers are blurry in his eyes, and all he can smell is that noxious, new carpeting smell that somehow never fades, no matter how many times it’s walked upon.

He doesn’t hate Ash. He’s never hated Ash. He will never hate Ash, because Ash was everything. Ash saved him, Ash protected him, Ash _loved_ him.

Just not enough.

Eiji barely registers the sound of the card reader at his door, barely notices that there are people around him now. Ibe’s shouting his name and grabbing at his head, while Max just keeps touching him, grabbing him, trying to get him to sit up. He’s yelling, “What did you take? What did you take, Eiji? What did you take?” and Eiji starts to sob again, just trying to gulp in as much air as he can, trying not to be sick all over the floor.

It’s fucking obvious what he took, and clearly it doesn’t take Max long to figure it out either, despite Ibe still screaming Eiji’s name over and over.

“Eiji,” Max says, grabbing his chin and forcing EIji’s eyes up. “Hey, kid. I’m going to need you to throw up, okay? I’m so sorry, kid, we’ve got to–”

No.

No, no, no. They are not taking this from him, they _aren’t_ , Eiji starts struggling as hard as he can. There’s pain in his abdomen that he barely registers as stitches pulling out, and he manages to swipe a fist up so hard it catches Max right in the nose.

Max yelps, pulling back for just a second, but now he’s screaming at Ibe to hold Eiji down. There are more people now, shadows, feet, voices, and there are hands all over him and Eiji won’t stop fighting. He can’t stop fighting.

He can’t fail.

He has to see Ash again.

Someone’s behind him, an arm thrown around his chest, a hand snagged in the back of his hair. Max is in front of him, swaying, blurring in and out of Eiji’s sight, but he can see dark red blood pouring down his face from his nose.

 _Good,_ Eiji thinks. _You deserve it._

He’s still trying to move, but nothing’s working right. His entire body has gone so cold he can’t even feel his limbs, so numb he barely registers any touch at all. Max’s mouth is opening and closing, and Eiji can almost see the shape of his own name on Max’s lips, but he can’t really hear it anymore.

They’re trying to get him to throw up. The person behind him suddenly puts a fist against his stomach and jerks back and up, and then Eiji is, coughing and sputtering, and not caring at all because it’s already too late.

It’s too late.

He can feel his body start to shiver–not the kind that comes from being out in the first snowfall of winter, but the kind that shakes bones apart. His teeth are chattering, and it’s the only sound he can hear in his head.

And he’s tired.

He’s so tired.

Someone presses a finger in his eyes, forcing his eyelids open and Eiji just smiles, watching the way the light narrows down into a single pinprick, watching the way his life collapses like a dying star.

Ibe can’t stop screaming.

Max has gone full on army mode. He’s shouting commands at the hotel staff, and the emergency response team like this is the only thing left in his world that matters at all.

Eventually, the medics push them both out of the way, shouting at them to stay back.

Ibe watches as they shove a tube down Eiji’s throat, tearing at his mouth enough that it starts to bleed. He watches as they push against Eiji’s chest, watches as they start to pump in air.

There’s noise everywhere, there are people everywhere, Max is trying to get to Eiji again and is being held back by two large security guards.

It’s chaos, until time completely stops, frozen by the words of the tech who’s got the tube shoved down Eiji’s throat.

“TIme of death: 12:18 a.m.”

Somewhere Max keens in grief. Somewhere, Eiji’s mother and father wait for their son to come home.

Ibe sits down, hand pressed against his mouth so hard it hurts to breathe.

And Eiji lies dead; chest no longer rising, heart no longer beating, his lips blue, and curved up in a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Twitter](twitter.com/agentcoop1)  
> 


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